


—O what wild wings gleam,

by idinink



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Canonical Character Death, Post-Finale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-17 22:36:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7288816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idinink/pseuds/idinink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It turns out that taking eight bullets and dying is much, much easier than taking a single one and surviving. John should know.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	—O what wild wings gleam,

It turns out that taking eight bullets and dying is much, much easier than taking a single one and surviving. John should know.

Afterward, he's not surprised to find himself engulfed in flames. Disappointed, maybe. But it's not as if Life — or God, the Universe, whatever you want to call It **—** has ever given him reason to believe It would be anywhere near as forgiving as a certain reclusive billionaire with a weakness for sweets and extravagant haberdashery. It's all right; it doesn't matter — the fire doesn't even hurt and even if it did, John would still do it all over again.

What _is_ surprising is when the flames begin to fall away, sinking toward the ground until there's nothing surrounding John except cool, clean air. The building he died on is now a crumbling inferno beneath him: just the mundane fallout from a very earthly naval missile, no brimstone about it.

Which means…

John hesitates, at a loss. He's never exactly planned for this eventuality. He looks around, half-expecting a blast of trumpets, a parting of the clouds, a bright light — _something._ But all is quiet and still; no instruction seems forthcoming. The breeze ruffles through his suit, his white shirt crisp and pristine again. He feels quite alone.

Then his gaze falls on the rooftop door of the neighboring building. Harold's building. He yearns toward it tentatively and immediately it's there before him, knob under his poised hand. He looks around again.

Apparently… apparently he’s _allowed_.

The knob doesn't turn but he's inside anyway before he can blink. He takes his time descending the staircase; he's not sure how he feels about watching Harold when Harold doesn't — can't — know he's there. He's a very private person, after all. And John will catch up soon enough; he'd seen how badly the older man limped as he walked away. The rush from the Federal Reserve to the rooftop must have exhausted him. And there's certainly no need for Harold to rush now. He'll be taking it slow.

He catches up even sooner than he expected. Halfway down a flight of stairs Harold has stopped, leaning against the wall, one shaking hand holding tight to the handrail. One shaking, _bloody_ hand.

“Harold,” he barks, forgetting Harold can’t hear him. _What happened?_ John wonders wildly as he rushes closer, horrified to see more blood on his collar, his shirt cuffs... Harold loses his grip suddenly, along with his footing; he slides down a few stairs, then slumps into a sit with a low whine. He’s pale, sweating, one hand pressed against his side where the dark fabric of his waistcoat is wet with something even darker.

“No,” John whispers. "Oh no, no no."

He drops to Harold’s level and reaches out, desperate to touch, to pull Harold’s hand away so he can see, so he can _help_. There has to be a way he can still help, there _has_ to be. But his hands are filmy ghosts against Harold’s body, immortal and ethereal and _useless_.

"What happened?" he frets. "How did they get to you here? How the _hell—"_

And then it dawns, sickeningly, and John remembers: the staggering limp had been more than tiredness; the odd strain in Harold’s voice more than mere emotion. The small gasp down in the vault, when the first gunshots rang out, more than mere surprise. _That_ was when it had happened. When they’d shot Harold, _killed_ him, right behind John’s back, an arm’s length away, and he  _hadn’t even noticed_.

The darkness spreads, then begins seeping through the cracks between Harold’s fingers, not dark anymore but bright and unmistakable against the skin. John knows it’s pointless, but he keeps Harold’s hand covered with both his own anyway. When Harold starts to weaken, his head tilting forward, his dripping red hand losing its grip, John tries talking to him — then shouting. Telling him to stay awake, to not give up, to keep pressing and keep waiting and keep holding on. Someone might come: Shaw or Fusco, tracking Harold’s phone, or alerted by the Machine in her final moments… it’s _possible_. If Harold can just  _hold on…_

John’s eyes are beyond tears now, his lungs beyond producing gasps and sobs. It takes him a long time to realize he’s weeping nonetheless.

It takes Harold an even longer time to die.

John watches, noting every flinch and whimper as Harold's life winds down slowly, tick by tick. He shivers for a while, so violently at one point that he slides helplessly down another two steps. The twist and impact makes him cry out and jars his glasses from his sweating face. He makes a feeble attempt to retrieve them, a painful stretch, half-hearted. Then he goes limp and surrenders to the dimness. He never says a word; apparently he's under no illusions that anyone is watching or listening anymore. 

Then comes the lingering stillness just before the end, when blinking ceases and breaths come only erratically. John has seen it so, so many times before. Even lived it himself once or twice, with rescue coming just barely in time. John sits a quiet vigil, outwardly still but a war of ice and fire raging underneath.

It's almost over when something happens: Harold jerks weakly, as if startled. Frowns down at the wound in his side. His own bloodied hand has long since dropped away to the floor, leaving nothing to see there — nothing except John’s invisible ones. Harold squints in their direction, looks away, then back again. His frown deepens. Then he raises his gaze slowly upward, his naked eyes so intensely blue in his white face that it almost hurts to look at them. John gets lost in that sweet pain until suddenly he realizes that those eyes are meeting his, that Harold is _looking back at him,_ except… that isn't possible...

“John,” Harold manages to whisper: one last exhalation before the blue goes dull.

John pitches forward and wraps himself around Harold, furious that he can’t hold him, not really, not even now, not ever again. It isn’t right, it isn’t _fair,_ that this happened, that he couldn’t stop it, not even by dying. By twining their own deaths, he and the Machine had thought they'd bought Harold's life with their own. But all they'd done was ensure that of the three of them, Harold was the one who ended up dying slowly, painfully. And all alone.

 _So,_ John thinks. _This is hell after all._ What else can explain how he can _still hurt so much,_ even in death, without even the release of tears to comfort him? He should have known better. He should have _known_. And if this is hell, then there truly is no hope of ever seeing Harold again. 

Then he hears a voice.

“John?”

He pulls back in shock, staring, but nothing has changed; Harold's face is still pale and empty. Forever beyond words, let alone words spoken in such a voice, as calm and as strong as John’s ever heard it—

“John.”

John goes still, feeling a strange yet familiar brightness growing behind him: a light and a warmth and a _presence_ growing stronger, growing closer, _reaching_ for him. He wants to turn and look but he’s afraid to; it’s too much, it’s too soon, it's too _real_.

He doesn’t deserve it.

Then, a command.

_“John.”_

He lets go of Harold's body. Clasps his hands together. And turns into the light.

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Song of Quietude", a poem by Robinson Jeffers. 
> 
> All feedback is welcomed and appreciated. <3


End file.
